The Witch Of The Borgo Pass

"In the deep windings of the grove no more the hag obscene, and grisly phantom dwell; nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell."—James Beattie

In 1672, a God-fearing Christian man by the name of Giure Grando, from the village of Khring near Tinjan in Croatia, first encountered the lethiferous witch. Her incessant legend would then extend and endure centuries of folklore throughout the unfamiliar regions of Eastern Europe. Apprehension and evil were associated with her, according to the distinct people who had seen her in person and lived to tell the story of this unspeakable horror.

Few of those individuals would be so bold as to claim they had survived an encounter with her and the horrible, horrible shriek of the witch of the Borgo Pass—the immortal widow of the faithful Wallachians, Moldavians, and Transylvanians.

I, Mehmet Turan, had seen much in this world of the living, travelling from the farthest edges of Europe to Asia. I had witnessed the growth of Africa and ventured to those exotic lands of Polynesia, but nothing had prepared me whatsoever for the sheer terror of the witch I would witness upon my arrival in the Carpathian Mountains of Wallachia.

The year was 1848, and it was the year of the tumultuous revolution that had spread throughout Western and Central Europe. I was a mere conscript for the Turkish Ottoman Empire, as our ship was set to dock at the Port of Constanţa, which had belonged to the empire but was now part of Romania. It was an unfortunate time that did not bode well for our busy commerce and transactions.

Our final destination was Wallachia, but the unpredictable weather that was affecting the region had forced us to drastically change our plan and course. Thus, we were compelled to take refuge in the port, until the fitful weather on the Black Sea had settled to some extent, allowing the other ships to reach Bulgaria and Moldova, and our troops to safely arrive in Wallachia. I had been through the Dardanelles, the Bosphorus, and the Black and Aegean Seas before, but Wallachia was an unknown land to me, situated north of the Lower Danube and south of the Southern Carpathians.

The damaging consequences of the revolts in Western and Eastern Europe had spread to Wallachia with passionate fervour. I had seen many distant lands as a soldier of the empire, but the terror of the ancient Carpathian Mountains would be forever stitched into the depth of my memory. The journey by ship was indeed weary, and our soldiers were sent to quell uncontrollable uprisings in Bucharest, within the province of Wallachia, at once. We were truly unfortunate at that time, to encounter a menacing threat upon our arrival.

After a fortnight, I was able to smell the strange scent of port and land afresh. There was no congenial reception for us upon docking; instead, we were greeted by suspicious onlookers, who did not appreciate Ottoman soldiers or any foreign troops on their shore.

Shortly, gunshots and hostility arose between our soldiers and the mob that had quickly besieged us. With our imposing muskets at hand, we defended the ship and ourselves the best we could, under the developing circumstances. The rabble slowly began to disperse, then, with the Babeldom, as the local soldiers loyal to the empire arrived on the scene.

We suffered several casualties, but I was not wounded in the end. The wounded men, who required hospitalisation, were promptly taken to the local hospital or inns to be carefully examined. The next day, we left the port city of Constanţa at last and headed towards Bucharest to reach Wallachia. The journey to Wallachia would be long and enervating, and we would also have to reach the eastern part of the Carpathian Mountains.

Eventually, we arrived at the city and left the disturbance of Constanţa behind us. Unfortunately, the unfolding events happening within the region had spread to Bosnia, Slovenia, Serbia, and Croatia. There was chaos and less civility among the denizens, and the local hospital in Bucharest was full of many casualties upon our arrival. Therefore, for that reason, the men were taken to local inns in Constanţa.

As a Turk, I was accustomed to the bluster of the ruffians of Istanbul, but the inn was not that distant from the encampment, and we were escorted by other Ottoman soldiers, as well as the local soldiers who had orders to assist any Ottoman or Russian soldiers.

Once at the inn, I was forced to listen from my room to the awful moans and agony of a Russian soldier, whose wounds were harrowing and life-threatening. There was a curious backdrop that caught my eye along the way, which had transpired as I passed the bridge entering the centre of the town itself.

What befell, I shall not forget at all. As we crossed the bridge, women were in lamentation as the bodies of dead men were being carried to the graveyard. The graveyard lay close to a vast forest of conspicuous shades of emerald green, which stood before the steep knolls of the Carpathian Mountains. What made me stare at the forest was a vibrant light that shone from an interstice. Because I did not speak much of the locals' tongue, I was forced to suppress my intrigue until the morrow.

The following morning, I was startled awake by the vivid shrills of black kites that roamed the town and forest at leisure. I found the bed I had slept in to be uncomfortable, and the pillow I had laid my head upon was even more undesirable. I was more concerned with my health than the bustle of the birds that had gathered.

I rose slowly from beneath the lone blanket and proceeded to get up and wash my face. I dressed and left my room at once, in search of my superior, passing along the corridor of the inn towards the entrance.

As I walked on, I encountered quite an uproar: it seemed the townsfolk were intent on mischief. Local soldiers stood guard at both the front and rear entrances of the inn, muskets at the ready, warning off the incensed crowd.

Fortunately, the mob did not descend into outright violence. They shouted and lingered for a while before finally dispersing. News of the recent riots and insurrections throughout Europe had reached Turkey’s shores swiftly.

We were grateful for the soldiers’ protection, and our Sultan conveyed his thanks to the local authorities—and to the Russian Tsar in particular. They assured us of safe passage back to the Black Sea, though the Tsar himself could not fully guarantee it. I returned to the inn and made my way back to my quarters.

On arriving, I found even more local troops assembled alongside our Ottoman soldiers. Bucharest was bustling, filled with anxiety and uncertainty. We were told we were to patrol the surrounding area, but an approaching storm had dashed our plans. A bitter gale was already rising, forcing us to seek shelter within the city.

Once more, I was compelled to return to the inn where I had stayed before. Wallachia had become an insoluble quagmire for us, and I longed only for the promise of clearer skies. At last, the storm abated after a tumultuous night, and by dawn we prepared to resume our patrols.

That evening there was no mob at the inn. As night fell upon the desolate forest, an unnatural hush descended, swallowing every trace of daylight and life. I found myself wandering, compelled by a strange restlessness that gnawed at my insides. The campfires of my regiment flickered in the distance, but their faint glow seemed powerless against the encroaching blackness that pressed upon me from all sides.

The forest here was unlike any other I had seen in my campaigns. The trees, ancient and towering, grew so densely that their branches intertwined high above, forming a tangled canopy that blotted out the sky entirely. Even the moon, full and brilliant only moments before, had vanished from sight, and the path before me was cast in deep shadow.

A low mist had begun to coil around the trunks, creeping along the forest ground like a living thing. Each breath I drew tasted damp and bitter, and the air itself seemed thick with something unseen—something watching. Every step I took was muffled, yet somehow, the quiet was oppressive, as though the forest held its breath, waiting.

Suddenly, a sound—a faint rustling—echoed from my left. I froze, straining my eyes into the gloom, but saw nothing save for the motionless trees. Then, from my right, the same sound, closer this time, like the brushing of dry leaves or the delicate scratch of claws against bark. I turned swiftly, my heart hammering in my chest, yet still there was nothing, only the endless dark and that creeping mist, which seemed now to draw nearer, encircling me in a tightening embrace.

The oppressive silence was broken once more, this time by a low moaning—distant, yet unmistakably human, rising and falling as though carried on the wind. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It was not the cry of an animal; it was a lament, hollow and mournful, filled with sorrow and ancient grief. The sound seemed to seep into my very bones, and I shivered involuntarily.

The deeper I ventured, the stranger my surroundings became. The trees, once so proud and upright, now appeared twisted and malformed, their trunks gnarled into grotesque shapes that resembled tortured faces, mouths agape in silent screams. The ground, too, had changed—no longer soft with moss and fallen leaves, but hard and cracked, as if scorched by some forgotten fire. Even the air grew heavier, thick with the stench of decay.

Then, a flicker of light—a pale, bluish glow—caught my eye. I turned towards it, half-hypnotised, and saw it hovering between the trees, wavering like a will-o’-the-wisp. My instincts screamed at me to retreat, but my feet moved of their own accord, drawn towards the mysterious light. As I stepped closer, the glow retreated, always just beyond my grasp, leading me deeper and deeper into the forest’s heart.

At last, the light winked out, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, and I found myself utterly alone, surrounded by a darkness so complete it seemed to press upon my chest like a physical weight. Panic surged within me. I spun around, trying to find the path back, but the forest had changed—it no longer resembled the place I had entered. Every tree looked the same, every path identical, as though I had stepped into some infernal maze with no way out.

The eerie silence returned, but this time it felt different—heavier, charged with something unseen and malevolent. I could feel eyes on me, though I could not say from where. My breaths came in ragged gasps, my skin clammy with fear, and I knew then that I had to flee before whatever was lurking in the shadows made itself known.

I stumbled blindly through the forest, branches clawing at my face and clothes, the mist wrapping around my legs like chains. Hours seemed to pass, or perhaps mere minutes—time had lost all meaning—before at last I broke through the treeline and saw, to my immense relief, the distant glow of the campfires. I returned to my room.

I collapsed to my knees, gasping for breath, my heart still racing. As I looked back, the forest stood silent and still once more, as though nothing had happened—as though it had swallowed its secrets whole. Yet I knew, deep down, that something ancient and terrible lurked within that cursed wood, watching, waiting for the moment to strike.

It was close to midnight, and the city’s curfew had been strictly enforced. The night air was cold and uncanny. Suddenly, my shutters began to sway, rattling against the frame. I rose to secure them—and in that moment I heard it, a soft whisper in the darkness:

‘Mehmet… Mehmet…’

I froze, certain I had mistaken the noise for distant villagers, but the streets were empty under the curfew. The whisper faded, yet a shadow lingered at my back. I turned swiftly—nothing. Ten minutes later, the voice returned, louder this time, repeating my name with urgent insistence.

Drawn by a mixture of fear and curiosity, I followed that disembodied call out of the inn and towards the edge of the mist-shrouded forest. Had I slipped into madness, wandering sleepwalking through the night? I soon discovered that this was no mere reverie, but the prelude to a far darker horror. As I stepped beneath the gnarled trees, the voice shifted—now to my left, now to my right—always just beyond sight, beckoning me deeper into the heart of that ancient wood.

I stood at the edge of the thicket in that ancient forest, enveloped by the night’s obscurity and mystery. What truly compelled me to enter, I cannot say, yet an irresistible force urged me onwards. I stepped into the gloom as the biting wind whipped the trees’ branches around me. It was rare that I ventured into such unnameable dread or risked the falling rain at this hour. Still, curiosity drove me forward, my gaze flicking anxiously from side to side as I trod with trembling steps.

Each passing moment, I asked myself where I was going. Suddenly, I felt breath at my ear, and the voice returned—soft as a whisper. Gradually, that exhalation drew closer.

The trees’ boughs seemed to stretch towards me, their trunks swelling in the pale moonlight. Leaves rustled with every gust, and the full moon cast its cold, resplendent glare. A distant howl drifted on the breeze, growing ever clearer. I sensed wolves circling, though I remained rooted to the spot. My pulse thundered like a smith’s hammer; sweat beaded on my brow and trickled down my cheeks. Terrified, I resolved to retreat to the safety of the inn.

As I backed away, the unmistakable presence of something unseen pressed in behind me. Turning slowly, I beheld a figure of pure horror: a decrepit witch cloaked in black, her pallid, whittish eyes fixed upon mine with utter disdain.

Her hair was long and hoary, trailing to the ground, and her tattered dress ruffled with each movement. She fixed me with a devilish stare, leaving me horrified and too dumbfounded to react swiftly. She called my name, like Lucifer tempting the Nazarene, her voice dripping with perverse deception. I questioned whether I was truly facing a witch or if this was some cruel trick played by the townsfolk upon an ignorant foreigner.

She raised her right hand towards me, as if to seize me, and I instinctively jerked my body backwards, falling to the ground. Even then, I could not tear my eyes away from her gruesome gaze, which cast an indelible terror upon me. Her grasp closed around my arm so tightly that I was helpless to resist further.

Her overpowering will subjugated mine, leaving me feckless and unable to think clearly. She lowered her face toward my bare neck, her jagged teeth poised like those of a ravenous predator. Her insatiable hunger seemed far from satisfied, and the terrifying thought of being stranded alone in this desolate place swelled within me, eclipsing my fear with sheer desperation.

Summoning my last reserves of strength, I rose to my feet, fending off her gnashing teeth, and struck her across the face with my right hand. Her reaction was as startling as it was bewildering: the moment I struck her, she vanished into the folds of the night. Suddenly, everything—the eerie wind, the whispering voices, the oppressive dread that had filled the beguiling forest—disappeared with her. The cold nights of this exotic and hidden land, so steeped in superstition and shadow, seemed to pulse with unseen forces. Yet now all was quiet; the howling wind was stilled, and the murmuring whispers had faded into nothingness.

I was still shocked and shaken by the entire incident and sought at once to return to my room at the local inn. All that had transpired before I prayed seemed nothing more than an inexplicable nightmare. I scurried back to the inn and to my room, where I washed my face and brushed off the dirt and grime that had soiled my clothing when I fell before the nefarious witch.

I tried to calm my nerves and steady my thoughts, but the memory of the old witch lingered, too vivid and unsettling to easily dismiss. As I sat in contemplation, I began once again to hear the whispering murmurs—this time, closer than ever.

And verily, there she stood once more behind me. When I turned, I was met with her hideous eyes, brimming with dread, as she shrieked fiercely into my ears. My face went gaunt, and my body grew weak and listless. Yet something even more unfathomable occurred next, leaving me adrift in my own bewildered thoughts.

I closed my eyes in sheer consternation, and when I opened them, I found myself no longer within the shadowy confines of that nightmare, nor in the witch’s dreadful presence. The entire ordeal in the forest had been an awful nightmare—one that had gripped my consciousness and refused to release its hold.

I was in a state of unmitigated shock as the gleam of morning light shone upon my bewildered and incomprehensible thoughts. The sounds of the bustling city soon roused my senses. What had happened to me? Had I merely been trapped in some dreadful dream of my own making? Rising from bed, I dressed and left my room.

Incredibly, there was no trace of dirt or mire on my clothing. My uniform was spotless—nearly as pristine as that of my superiors. I grabbed my soldier’s maroon fez and joined my regiment. That day, along with my fellow Ottoman soldiers, I was expected to patrol the city and its surrounding areas; instead, we were given orders to head for the Carpathian Mountains, several hours away. We travelled by wagon and arrived in the evening, weary from the journey.

On our way to the winding Borgo Pass, deep in the mountains, we were delayed by the discovery that the road through the Carpathians was closed for reasons unknown. Our mission was to assist in rooting out any remaining resistance hiding within the lofty mountains.

I was prepared for any sudden engagement, and once we had reached the barricaded road at Borgo Pass on foot, I turned to a local soldier who spoke Turkish and asked the reason for the closure. His answer was that uprisings in the region had forced the rebels to block the road.

I was becoming increasingly aware of the chaos unfolding not only in the country but throughout these parts of Europe also. It unravelled before my very eyes, leaving me in instant astonishment. I asked him whether there was another passage to the mountains, but his reply was the same as before: the other main road to the mountains was completely blocked as well. I pondered the question—what was going to happen next?

My duty as a soldier of the Ottoman Empire compelled me to reach the mountains as swiftly as possible. Our commander insisted on finding an alternative route, but it was a futile effort, for the native guides assisting us could not—or would not—take us any farther.

Our commander was irked by their stubbornness and their evident fear of proceeding to the mountains, but there was little we could do at that moment except reconcile ourselves to the fact that we were not going to reach the mountains unless by some other feasible means.

The situation at the pass was becoming increasingly unstable. Our options were few: either attempt to reach the mountains on foot without the guides, or return once more to the inn. The commander, in accordance with our collective will, decided to make the attempt on foot. Though the mountains were still several kilometres away, we resolved to press on. We paid the guides for their cooperation and service, then set off towards the forbidding mountains, which seemed to stare down at us with a macabre dare.

I can plainly recall the last words of one of the guides before he left, chilling in their message: ‘Do not stray far from the road, for the passage is full of many unexpected dangers—bears, wolves, and lynxes’. I took heed of his warning, but I was so preoccupied with reaching the mountains that I failed to fully absorb the weight of it.

We pressed on through the forest without delay, and soon I would encounter the old witch again. Except this time, she did not seem a mere figment of a wretched nightmare. I hurried along the path with my regiment as the boughs of the trees began to rustle and the wind began to howl. It was all deeply unsettling, and I found myself cursing the very environs in which I was now immersed.

As I walked over the crisp, tawny leaves and passed beneath fragile gossamers, the howling of the wind grew fiercer by the minute, and my heart began to throb within my chest. The dense trees soon caused our regiment to become separated, and I found myself utterly alone. It was then I was to confront the inscrutable reality that my earlier nightmare was, in fact, real. Not only was I lost within the ominous grip of the forest, but the inescapable madness of its bewitching nature seemed to be awaiting me.

The familiar voice from my nightmare resurfaced, and there was nothing I could do to halt this seemingly endless vision of horror. The voice grew louder, just as it had in my dreadful dream. I was caught in a simultaneous quandary, unable to discern how best to respond, as I called out the names of my fellow comrades in desperation.

Because the passage we had chosen was blocked by the rebels, I had no choice but to press further into the forest, hoping to reach a clearing as I had wished. Yet I was unprepared for the unpleasant surprise that awaited me. The voice persisted as I scurried along the path, and I tried to ignore it by covering my ears with my hands. It was pointless, for I failed to silence the voice, and the leaves soughed ominously as I walked on, timorous and seemingly aimless.

The voice began to make me question my sanity—for it repeated my name again and again, taunting me with devilish cunning. Panic set in, and I began to run through the forest with mounting desperation. I felt the boughs grasp at me as I passed, clawing at my clothing. The wind bustled fiercely, like the bitter draught of a harsh winter.

As I pressed further into the gloomy forest, the oppressive sounds around me seemed to deepen with every step. My boots squelched against the sodden earth, and the damp chill of the air bit at my skin. After what felt like an eternity of trudging, my weary eyes caught a curious sight through the dense thicket—a clearing, faintly illuminated by a thin shaft of light that had managed to pierce the stubborn sky above.

Drawn by a strange mix of dread and curiosity, I forced my way through the brambles until I stood at the edge of the forest. There, almost hidden amongst the creeping ivy and wild growth, lay a lone grave. Its crooked headstone was cracked and weathered by time, the stone grey and pockmarked, and nearly swallowed by nature’s relentless encroachment.

I hesitated, my breath misting in the cold air, before stepping closer. Something about that grave seemed to exude an aura of foreboding—an eeriness heavier than the already suffocating noise of the forest. I knelt down cautiously, wiping away the clinging leaves and debris with a trembling hand. My fingers traced the rough surface of the stone until I uncovered the battered inscription.

There was no name to mark the resting place of whoever lay beneath. Instead, crudely and unevenly carved, were chilling words that sent a shiver down my spine:

"Heed this warning, all who pass: Here lies the woman cursed by death and damnation. A witch of unspeakable evil. Let her slumber not be disturbed, lest you awaken her wrath."

I read the message twice over, hardly able to believe my eyes. An uneasy sensation prickled the back of my neck, and I glanced warily around the clearing. The forest seemed to hold its breath, as though the very trees were eavesdropping on my discovery. A heavy anxiety pressed down upon me, and though the grave appeared untouched, I could not shake the feeling that I was not alone.

A low, mournful moan of wind swept suddenly through the forest, stirring the ivy and sending a scattering of dry leaves skittering across the earth. The cross at the top of the gravestone wobbled ever so slightly, and my heart leapt into my throat. Was it merely the wind, or was something beneath the soil stirring?

Compelled by a morbid fascination, I reached out once more, this time laying my palm flat against the cold stone. At that precise moment, a sharp, biting chill coursed through my arm, so frigid that I snatched my hand back instinctively. The wind’s whisper grew louder, as if countless unseen mouths were murmuring from all directions. And then, carried on that bitter draught, I heard it—my own name, whispered so faintly, yet unmistakably.

My breath hitched, and a mounting sense of terror seized me. I stumbled back from the grave, my pulse thudding like a war drum in my ears. Though my eyes scoured the forest for any sign of movement, there was nothing to see but the skeletal boughs swaying ominously overhead. Yet I knew—somehow, with unshakeable certainty—that I had disturbed something ancient and malevolent.

Panic welled up within me, and without daring another glance at that wretched grave, I turned on my heel and fled the clearing. Branches clawed at my uniform as I tore through the undergrowth, my breath ragged and my heart hammering with dread. All the while, the warning upon that nameless stone echoed relentlessly in my mind, its grim message a curse I could no longer escape.

Then, the nameless witch of my terrible nightmare appeared before me, formidable and dreadful. Thoughts of an agonising death flooded my mind at that very moment. I felt paralysed, unable to move a muscle, and the mere sight of the witch was enough to fill me with absolute horror. Was this true reality I was witnessing—or merely the harsh truth of my maddening predicament? Her appearance was so grotesque and disturbing that I could scarcely bear to look upon her wrinkled, loathsome countenance.

Determined to escape not only the forest but the witch’s dreadful presence, I fled. As I ran, she opened her mouth and unleashed a deafening shriek. I ran and ran until my feet grew heavy and I could run no more. I never once dared glance back, pressing on towards the mouth of the mountains. Finally, breathless and utterly spent, I was forced to stop running.

When I looked behind me, the hoary witch was no longer nearby, and the daunting voice that had haunted me in the forest had fallen completely silent. Yet I sensed she was not truly gone, and I was correct in my assumption, for I soon heard that horrifying shriek once more. The vociferous sound reverberated through the forest, echoing in every direction—or so it seemed—though my regiment remained oblivious.

I tried to flee, but I could not. My feet grew sluggish and would scarcely move. She exerted a sinister control over me, driving me to the brink of madness, as blood began to pour from my ears and eyes alike. Never in all my life had I experienced such unbearable agony as I did that day with the abominable witch. Within a minute, I was deaf and collapsed onto the ground.

When I awoke, I found myself within a cavern of impending doom, and, miraculously, my hearing had returned. The impenetrable gloom of the cavern was suffocating, enveloping everything in a shroud of darkness. It resembled nothing less than a chasm of utter despair and desolation.

There were citigrade spiders and scuttling rats in abundance, and I was petrified by these grotesque abnormalities. Strewn across the cavern were the remains of hundreds of dead Russian and Ottoman soldiers, along with Wallachian soldiers and peasants. Their brains had been devoured by a Thyestean creature—none other than the slavering witch herself.

As I began searching frantically for an exit, I caught sight of the witch’s luminous eyes as she started to glide towards me with terrifying speed. Her form was imposing, towering over me with an intimidating presence. I ran with all my strength until I reached the entrance of the cavern, where through the cracks in the walls I glimpsed the pellucid light of the sun. That opening was my salvation, and I escaped—never once daring to look back.

My adrenaline surged, and desperation overcame the power of her shriek. I tore through the labyrinthine forest until I finally reached the edge of the solitary, obstructed passage once more. I was saved, and local soldiers soon found me, dishevelled and half-mad. They lifted me onto their waggon, though at first they did not recognise my accoutrements as those of an Ottoman soldier.

Initially, they thought I was Russian, but upon hearing me speak, they realised without doubt that I was a Turk. The waggon began to move off, and I lay in the back, attempting to banish the haunting nightmare from my mind. Yet, as the soldiers spoke amongst themselves while the waggon rattled forward, I sensed that something unusual was unfolding.

What was happening, I soon realised with dawning horror, was that they were taking me back to the cavern—though by another route. I did not comprehend this at first, until I noticed the familiar and dreadful circumference of that terrifying place. There, at the entrance, stood the unnatural witch, who opened her mouth and let out a shriek so piercing it seemed to rip through the fabric of the air. They had returned me to the dispiteous abode of hell that existed along the road of the Borgo Pass.

Ten days after that memorable incident with the old witch, I was discovered lying by the side of the Borgo Pass road, which led to the Carpathian Mountains, by a lone Wallachian peasant. He found me face down and motionless, uncertain of my nationality or identity. What disturbed and shocked him beyond measure was what he saw when he turned me over to speak to me.

As he rolled me on to my back, he beheld the unnatural sight: the visible tincture of my eyes was pure white, as though the colour had been inexplicably drained away. My mouth was parched, and my skin was covered in a ghastly dryness. My body began to convulse uncontrollably, and, in that moment, I realised—I was alive! Alive, and not dead!

I could not utter a single word, struck dumb by the ineffable horror I had suffered at the witch’s cruel hands. I did not fully understand the peasant’s language, but I sensed he was trying to offer help and reassurance. I was completely blind, unable to see anything before or behind me. In desperation, I began to scream the damnable words in Turkish—'cadı, cadı'—again and again, until at last he understood that I was speaking of a witch, which in Wallachian he recognised as 'strigoi'.

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